


Glasses Man

by TT40_Angst_Queen



Series: WLIIA AU's [1]
Category: Whose Line Is It Anyway? RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-17 22:11:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10603290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TT40_Angst_Queen/pseuds/TT40_Angst_Queen
Summary: Two men stood side by side alongside a third, that third person laying sprawled along the ground, Cold, still, and empty of life. Staring brown eyes stared into the cloudy, pollution filled LA sky, empty of whatever soul that once filled the corpse, Glasses askew on the pale, bloodless face, and mouth slack and lifeless.





	

**Author's Note:**

> SoloChaos and I are working on Co-Authoring this into a full fic, subscribe to me so you know when its up!

The weather bellied the grim scene that two men stood and observed. The night was clear and warm, and if it wasn't LA, it most likely would have been a star filled sky. Despite the pleasing weather, tension filled the surrounding area as officers and other personnel worked around the two men, and police line tape was used to block the scene from prying eyes. 

 

Two men stood side by side alongside a third, that third person laying sprawled along the ground, Cold, still, and empty of life. Staring brown eyes stared into the cloudy, pollution filled LA sky, empty of whatever soul that once filled the corpse, Glasses askew on the pale, bloodless face, and mouth slack and lifeless. 

 

“Seems Like more and more of these are happening lately, Johnson. It’s a pity.” The older of the two men spoke to the shorter and younger man. Reaching into his pocket, the Grey haired older man grabbed his notepad, and wrote a few things down.

 

“What do you think of the scene?” The younger man looked down at the body of the poor sap that got blown away, a bullet wound straight between the eyes, blood trailing from the hole in the corpse's skull.

 

“Well, Detective, he was parta’ one of the gangs around here…” The Younger man spoke, and the Detective rose his eyebrow.

 

“Why do you say that, Johnson?” 

 

The younger man swallowed, rubbing his hands together. 

 

“Well, uh, he’s wearin’ the tattoo, ain't’ he?” The younger man pointed to a tattoo of a paw on the body’s neck, right behind his ear.

* * *

  
  


_ “I want a  paw mark, right behind my ear.” The man in the Glasses spoke, and the Tattoo artist raised his eyebrow. _

 

_ “You one’o those mob fella’s?” The glasses wearing man snarled, and the man backed off raising his hands in a placating manner.  _

 

_ “Right, no problem, none o’ my business. Long as you can pay-”  _

 

_ “Put it on Sixty Six Stiles Tab, ya’ mook.” The artist paled, and he nodded violently. _

_ “Yessir, right away. Sorry for any disrespect, sir.”  _

 

_ Glasses sneered. _

 

_ “Just get it done, yappy, and shut your trap while you're at it. I hear anybody knowin’ bout’ this, and imma blow your ficken top off, capiche?”  The dark room cast shadows on Glasses man’s face, and it made him look even more dangerous, doubly so with the sadistic grin on his face.   _

 

_ “Gotcha, Boss.” _

 

_ “Good, Get to it, Esten.” _

 

_ “Yessir.” _

 

* * *

 

“You’re completely right, Johnson. That’s the mark of Mob Boss Six-Six Stiles. All his inner circle get that tattoo when they become part of it, and the only way out is death. What else can you tell me?”

 

“Uh, it’s old, so he’s been in the gang for a long time. So, he must have known Stiles closely…”

 

“Your right, this man was actually his right hand, for many years, after his first right hand, Big Man Mochrie, was captured and put in Jail. When Mochrie was put in the Chair, it’s said that Stiles went nuts, killed off all of his inner circle, trying to find the traitor that turned him in. He did, it was Deadeye Daniel Patterson.” The Detective turned his eyes to the dead man on the ground.

 

“Then he found Greg Proops, and Proops got his nickname in his initiation.  Razor Proops. Got his name from his Razor Tongue and his Razor Wit. Proops flushed out two Of the rival mobs moles from Stiles newly chosen circle, funny enough, they were British, just like his first one. They died like the first British members of Stiles circle, swimming with the fishes.”

 

“What about the scar, underneath his eye?”

 

“That was Proops first lesson. And another reason to his nickname. There isn't room for the weak in Stiles Circle, and Stiles made that clear.”

* * *

  
  


_ Fingers brushed against Greg’s neck, pushing his brown fedora slightly askew. The fingers brushed against the sensitive skin of the new tattoo, and Greg winced, causing his new boss to chuckle. _

 

_ “Something wrong, Proops?” Greg shook his head. _

 

_ “No, boss, I’m fine, just a little sensitive.” Six-Six Stiles smirked, grabbing onto the skin and squeezing, causing Greg to yelp, then bite his tongue until he felt the taste of iron fill his mouth. _

 

_ “That right, Proops. There's no place for weakness here. A little pain from a needle…” Stiles took a Box-knife from his belt. The glint of metal reflecting off Greg’s glasses as Stiles ripped them off his face, and pressed the deadly sharp knife to the soft skin just below the shorter mans eye. _

 

_ “...Should be nothing….” The knife was pressed deep into Greg’s soft, scar-free skin, and made it way down his cheek, blood rising immediately to the surface of the slice. Greg bit his tongue harder than before, knowing that any verbal divulgence of the pain from this act, would make his boss double the cut. _

 

_ “...Compared to this.” Stiles finished the cut, and drew the knife away from Greg’s face. Stiles green eyes pierced into Greg’s own brown eyes, searching, then smiled.  _

_ It wasn’t a nice smile. But at the same time, Greg could see a hint of respect in the tall man’s eyes. _

 

_ “Good. You’ll make a fine right-hand man.” Greg smiled Gratefully and nodded, relaxing his tense shoulders. He ignored the blood steadily trailing down his face. He ignored the fact that he felt thankful to a man that just permanently scarred him.  _

 

_ “Thanks Boss.” _

* * *

  
  


“Proops became Stiles right-hand man, and his closest confidant. What else can you tell me about the body, Johnson?” Johnson shifted, and with gloved hands, lifted on of the Body’s own.

 

“Uh, He isn’t married. So, he wouldn't have been killed because of a lover's revenge…” The grey haired man chuckled.

 

“I wouldn’t be so sure…” Johnson looked up, confused.

 

“He had a lover, sir?” the Detective nodded, smirking.

 

“Oh yes, he certainly did. And Six-Six Stiles didn't like people touching what he considered his.”

* * *

 

_ The sound of a gunshot rang through the room, and the thump of a body hitting soft carpet swiftly followed. _

 

_ “Nobody touches Greg. He’s mine, Got that?” The room of men nodded, and resolutely ignored the body of Handsy Hal McClain, whose namesake caused his death.  _

 

_ Greg let out the breath he was holding, thankful that the man who he was undoubtedly planning to force him into some sort of oral act, was no longer able to do so. He straightened his suit, and waited for the meeting between the two Bosses to finish. _

 

* * *

 

“Sir...?” Johnson shifted uncomfortably, and the Detective turned to him, a look in his eyes Johnson couldn't detect.

 

“How do you know all this?” Johnson asked, and the Detective sighed, turning to look at the body.

 

“Like I said before, Stiles doesn’t like traitors. He deals with them harshly, and without mercy. Big Man Mochrie was the only thing keeping Stiles even remotely moral. After his death, caused by betrayal, Stiles dealt traitors a harsh, and slow death.”

 

“Sir- I don’t understand,” The Detective hung his head, a look of grief on his face.

 

“Proops was a rat. Proops was  _ Our  _ Rat. but he got too close to Stiles, his report became less often and less detailed. But they still came.

 

“I can only guess that Stiles relationship with Proops is the only reason he gave him a swift death when he found out.”

 

* * *

 

_ “I’m Sorry!” Greg sobbed, tears pouring down his face, kneeling in the filthy alleyway, his lover pointing a gun to his face. Stiles face was twisted in rage, betrayal and sadness.  _

 

_ “You  _ **_Rat_ ** _! I  _ **_trusted_ ** _ you!” Stiles shouted, his gun shaking with his voice. A lone tear streaked down his cheek. _

 

_ Greg sobbed even harder. “I’m so sorry Ry… I didn’t tell them anything important… I haven’t seen them in months..” Gregs hand reached to clutch at Ryan’s jacket, but he shook it off violently, taking a step back. _

_ “You still are a rat, one I entrusted my very life with! _

 

_ “Why?” Ryan whispered, genuine Grief in his voice and face. _

 

_ Greg shook his head.  “I owed the Government a lot of money, it was that or Alcatraz. I didn’t mean to fall in love with you..” Ryan looked down, struggling, then drew in a deep breath, looking back up, his face etched with regret.  _

 

_ “You know I love you.” Greg Nodded. _

 

_ “I know..” Greg whispered. _

 

_ Ryan looked apologetically at Greg, true regret in his eyes.  _

 

_ “But I can’t let you go.You know why.” _

 

_ “Colin…” Greg whimpered, and Ryan nodded, _

 

_ “Your brother would have wanted me to give you mercy. You will be able to see him soon.” _

 

_ Greg sobbed even harder.  _

 

_ “I’m sorry, Ryan.” _

 

_ “I know you are, Greg. Close your eyes. This will be quick.”  Greg nodded, and closed his eyes. _

 

_ “I love you, Greg.” _

 

_ Despite himself, Greg wanted to have Ryan’s green eyes be the last thing he saw, and opened his eyes and locked onto Ryan’s own, just as he pulled the trigger. _

 

_ Ryans green eyes reflected in Greg’s glassy own. _

 

_ Stiles couldn't bring himself to close them. _

* * *

  
  


“Detective Anderson?” The detective sighed. 

 

“Yes Johnson?” Johnson gazed into the british mans eyes.

 

“I’m sorry for your loss, sir.” Clive chuckled wetly. 

 

“I’ll make a detective out of you yet, Johnson.”

 

Clive sighed, looking over the scene. The night no longer seemed pleasant. The air was filled with words and action forever unsaid, and sadness hung in the air like the city’s sewer stench. 

 

“Go home Johnson. The case is solved.” Johnson could tell his boss wanted to be left alone, now that they were the only to left, other then the coroner that was waiting patiently outside of the scene. Mr. Davis clearly knew both Proops and Anderson, and kne that this wasn’t the time to do his job.

 

“Of course sir. You’ll be alright, won’t you sir?” Johnson spoke, out of concern.

 

Clive nodded, his face blank.

 

“Eventually. Go home Johnson.” and Johnson left, making it just Clive, Jeff, and a body that no longer lived.

 

Clive kneeled down, wincing as his knees cracked.

 

“I loved you, You know.” Clive brushed his fingers down the cold cheek. “But you never paid me any mind. Not after I sent Colin to his death...  you were cold after that.” Clive scoffed. “I should have guessed you would start to lose your loyalty, forced as it was.” a sigh. “You always did fall in love with whatever I hated. You always did like what your brother coveted. It killed you, in the end.” Clive looked up into the sky, and for a second, he saw the glint of a star, shining bright in the sky, before it was covered in the typical LA smog. He smiled.

 

“I Guess this is goodbye, Mr. P.”

 

Clive reached down, and closed the glassy eyes of his friend.

 

“Hope to see you again soon.”

  
And he walked away.

**Author's Note:**

> Comment and kudos please!!


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